Dark Angel
by TwoMoon'sLite
Summary: Sherlock is no angel, nor is John. They both have darkness in them, but do not use it. A girl is born from darkness and light, fighting to remain on the side of the angels. She is a master of disguise and manipulation and has quite a mouth. This child's soul, forever marked by tradgedy, finds itself in Sherlock and John's capable hands. (A story of learned vs inherited personality)
1. Surrender is a Loser's Skill

**WOLAH! The Redone, Revamped, Schematics is here! And as always, I am TwoMoon'sLite, your source for feels and fanfics. Hello, loves!**

**This is a long chapter, just as a warning, and boy did I love writing it. **

**Just a note this chapter's name (and the others that shall follow it) comes from one of my favorite songs. This comes from the song Never Surrender by Skillet. Emelia utters a line close to a phrase in that song. (This will be posted after the disclaimer after this!)**

**Also, THE SEASON 3 TRAILER WAS RELEASED AND JOHN HAS A MUSTACHE. THIS IS NOT OKAY WITH ME. Your thoughts? Please leave them in a review. **

**FEAR NOT! The next chapter will be up within a week, but after that I cannot guarantee, sadly. I start school... =...(**

**But for now, please just enjoy. Love y'all, and REVIEW!**

**P.S. Special thanks to my possibly-forced-to-be beta reader, the lovely littleblackneko. Thanks for ruining my life with Sherlock feels every moment of the day. :)**

**REVIEW!**

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**DISCLAIMER:**** I own nothing except Emelia, her backstory (which is completely fictional!), and the E.D. mentioned in the case. I am not Moffat or Gattis. All names are purely fictional and not meant to represent real people. I apologize if I steal your name, purely coincidence, that is.**

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Sherlock Holmes held hands with John Watson as he entered the orphanage. Yes, John was decidedly not gay, but it was for a case. They needed to adopt. The case had found 3 different teenage adoptees, all blonde and near the age of 15. "To catch a killer, you need bait," Sherlock mused as they were welcomed by a sweet girl.

She was blonde, but her roots showed that her natural color was much darker. The golden tresses framed an angular face, but a beautiful one. Set in the pale skin were two beryl gems, sparkling with either curiosity or discontent, Sherlock couldn't tell. She wore a hideous floral print dress, one that had been out of style since the 60's. A small smile graced her lips, and a Southern-tinged voice creeped out.

"Hello, welcome to Eden Orphanage, the happiest place for children of sad becomings. Are you looking to adopt?"

John smiled, "Yes, we've both decided that a child would be good for our mental health, and our relationship." Such a good liar, John was.

The girl smiled. "Of course, let me get our house mother, Mrs. Jones." She ran off, returning with no one. "Please follow me, Mrs. Jones will join you."

The blonde beauty led the way down a hallway, with rooms on either side. Out of one, two tiny children ran. One, a girl, was being chased by a small boy. Their lead stopped to admonish the children.

"No, Tristan, Sue. We don't run in the corridor. Mrs. Jones said so." Stooping down to their level, she added, "Now run along, not literally, and wash up. Dinner as soon as I get these nice gentlemen settled."

The children recognized the elder as such and went off, chattering about some thing or another. The elder girl smiled and led the way into a different room. It held a table and four chairs, two on either side. Sherlock and John took a seat across from the door.

"She'll be right with you," the floral-dressed belle promised.

As she shut the door, a girl not much younger than herself rushed up, holding a squirming child. "Oh, Em, he simply won't calm down. I've tried everything! Joey just won't sleep!"

"Give 'im to me, Melinda, and go get dinner for yourself and the others. And if you see Mrs. Jones, tell her we have visitors." She was handed a child, who stared at John over her shoulder, brown eyes gazing into blue, before closing the door.

Less than ten minutes later, Mrs. Jones entered. She was a dumpy woman, in her early 50's, with classic librarian glasses and extremely out-of-date clothing. Her voice was nasally. "How can I help you boys?"

"We'd like to adopt," John began.

"Well, all of our children are very happy here, and little Sue..."

"No, no little children. I despise them. Someone... Older," Sherlock supplied. Thank God he was a brilliant actor, or this woman would kick him out and he'd never solve the case!

"Ah, well our oldest are Melinda, she's 13, Mark and Hannah, 14 and twins, Emelia, 15, and Thomas at 17."

"Emelia? Can we meet her? I absolutely would love a little girl," John asked with a smile that made Sherlock's stomach flip. He blamed it on the fact that he had eaten that day.

"A-are you sure? Emelia is a troubled girl, her parents were American tourists, there was a terrible accident and they both died."

"We're sure," Sherlock assured her.

Mrs. Jones nodded and left, returning with the girl they had met on the way in, devoid of toddler. She was dressed much differently, opting for jeans and a black men's T-shirt. Her accent was still there.

"Now, Emelia, these nice men are going to ask you a few questions and you answer them honestly, alright?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Mrs. Jones left with a smile. The girl, Emelia, planted her booted feet on the table. Her heavy black combat boots, made John jump at their sound.

"Ah, Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson. A pleasure, "she started with a dip of her head. Gone was the sweet, innocent Southern belle. Neither man knew what exactly sat in her place. "Let's get down to business, why are you here?"

"That's for us to know and you to guess wrongly at."

"Tut-tut, Mr. Holmes, didn't your mummy teach you manners?"

"Yes, I just choose not to use them."

"Obviously."

"Oh, shut up, you little orphan girl. I'm trying to get you adopted, not be told off by a girl with scarcely there memories of her parents, who were probably gangbangers if your current appearance is anything to go by."

"You shut your mouth right now!" Emelia lunged, toppling her chair and pointing in Sherlock's face. "My parents were great people!"

"Alright, that's enough," John soothed, lowering Emelia into the other chair, "Please forgive Sherlock, he's an incorrigible sod."

Said dark-haired man glared at the short doctor.

"All is forgiven, John."

At that moment, the door creaked open and Emelia's feet disappeared off the table. Her charming and deceptive demeanor returned.

"Is everything all right?"

"Everything is just peachy, Mrs. Jones."

The woman left almost silently and John spoke up, "Well, me and Sherlock-"

"Sherlock and I," Emelia interjected.

"Err... Excuse me?"

"You meant Sherlock and I. Basic grammar Dr. Watson. You did go to school, I assume, if you are a doctor."

"Don't talk to John that way," Sherlock ordered.

"I'll speak however the hell I want to whoever the hell I want to 'till you tell what you're doing here." Sherlock glared at her, and she glared right back.

"A case. We require your assistance."

"Oh please Mr. Holmes, we all know 'assistance' really means 'to be bait for some criminal."

"Now that is not... I will not be upstaged by some girl, let alone an American orphan with a Southern accent!"

"Hmmm... let's strike a deal then." Emelia leaned forward, planting her forearms on the table.

"What type of deal are we talking about?" John asked, rightfully skeptical.

"Well, this place is a hell hole. I want out. All of us know your plan was to take me, then dump me back when I outlive my usefulness. That ain't gonna happen."

"What?"

"I am proposing that you two adopt me, and do not take me back here when we're done with this case."

"We have no use for a Southern teenager," Sherlock pointed out maliciously.

This caused Emelia to laugh, more of a chuckle, really. She laughed for a minute, shaking her head. "Oh, Mr. Holmes... I'm not from America! I'm from Britain! Good old England! My parents weren't tourists; it's just a cover story!"

"Why would you need a cover story?"

"That's none of your business, Dr. Watson. Now, do we have a deal?"

"Absolutely not. We have no use for her. I will not stand for it. She'd die. We'd die!"

"Fine, I don't need you to survive. I'm fine here. Good day to you," She stood pourpusfully, pausing to glare down on the men.

"No wait, Emelia," John rushed, "Please sit. Sherlock will consider your demands."

"I will not!"

"Sherlock Holmes!"

"But Joooooooohn..."

"Fine. We'll keep you until we can pawn you off on Mycroft, or hell, even Harry."

"No. The whole nine yards, Holmes, or I walk."

"WHAT?"

"Thought you knew what you were messing with didn't you, Holmes? That I would just agree and you would be rid of me? As I have made clear, you have the capability of being wrong, so I am to improve your chances of not dying by pointing it out on an hourly basis. Do we have a deal?"

A long silence followed, as Sherlock contemplated the deal. A child, a teen at Baker Street? Preposterous. But this case depended on her. The dark haired man looked to his short friend and found that he had already accepted the offer. That sealed it.

"Deal."

"Excellent choice."

The two taller guests shook hands, then the blondes. They prepared to leave, and before they did, Emelia uttered a single phrase that both scared and elicited excitement from the men.

"Let the fun begin."

* * *

The men and their newest flat mate climbed into a cab no less than an hour later. John gave directions as Emelia and Sherlock looked out of the windows. There was silence all around.

Suddenly, Sherlock's phone rang a call. The lanky man answered it, his face lighting up as he relayed a new address for the cabbie to take them to.

"Sherlock?" John asked, eyebrow raised in confusion.

"What, Jawn? We're almost there. Can't this wait?"

"Sherlock, we can't take a kid to a crime scene."

"I'm no child, Doctor," Emelia snidely pointed out.

"Please call me John. And even so, we can't take a teenager to a murder scene!"

"Oh, please. I can handle a little blood, John." Emelia rolled her eyes.

"Glad that's settled, let's go," Sherlock pointedly mumbled. The cab stopped at that moment and he was out of the cab in seconds, his shorter companions not far behind.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock called, not wanting to have to deal with the idiots named Donovan and Anderson.

The DI poked his head out of a rather unassuming doorway, "Sherlock, there you are, mate! She's in here! It's another one."  
The trio made their way into the small house, the two taller persons shoving anyone unnecessary roughly put of their way with no hint of apology. John rounded up the rear as the headed up crowded stairs to a light pink bedroom.

"Her name is Emma Drowel. Fits all the killer's specifications. 5'6". Bright student. Blonde, dyed from dark brown. Grey eyes. Name starts with e. Known to have difficult behavior. Orphaned early and recently adopted by a gay couple," Lestrade rattled off, blissfully unaware that a girl having those exact qualities stood not a few feet behind him.

John and Sherlock set to work. Emelia watched carefully.

"What the hell is she doing here?!"

Everyone in the room turned to Donovan, who was scowling at Sherlock and pointing to Em. The teen gave a little wave.

"That is my -"

"Emelia? What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were still at the orphanage," DI Lestrade interrupted.

"Hey Greggie! Isn't it great? Sherlock and John have adopted me!" She bounced happily over to the DI, hugging him, to the astonishment of the rest of the room.

"What? Sherlock, why did you adopt her?"  
"She fit the criteria."

Lestrade ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "You too, John?"

"Hey, I didn't know it was for a case until after the papers were signed," John smoothly lied.

"How do you know Lestrade?"

"He was the officer that looked after me after my parents deaths. It was his idea for a-" Lestrade clamped a hand over her mouth and laughed nervously. "So, what have we got?" He asked changing the subject back to the murder and corpse that lay before them.

"Strangled, obviously. By rope to make it look like a suicide. She fought, but he caught her off guard, so it hardly helped. For good measure, he slit her throat, that's where the blood spatter comes in. Same killer. But this time we have a leg up," Sherlock smiled eerily at his new daughter.

* * *

Emelia was settled into 221B, taking Sherlock's room and booting its current occupant to the couch, as "he didn't need much sleep anyways". Sherlock insisted on coming with John on the most mundane of tasks, just to leave Emelia home alone, as the killer's bait. It was a week before the attack.

Emelia was making tea in the kitchen for herself, the two male occupants of 221B being out on a food run, for takeaway and for groceries. She was just stirring some sugar into her tea, when a rope was slug about her neck. She struggled, but her captor was taller than she. The teen managed to back her assailant into the table, and turn the tides. He didn't seem to expect the strength that she had, and she successfully managed to free herself of the choking rope.

She immediately punched the attacker square in the face, and then shoved him to the floor, clambering on top of him to hog-tie the intruder, hand to hand to foot to foot above his back. He groaned, but Emelia shoved his face to the floor with a well-placed foot. She pinned the man strategically using her long limbs and known pressure points. She disappointedly saw the contents of her tea spilled on the kitchen floor and sighed. Minutes later, John barreled through the door, Sherlock yelling on his phone behind him. Together, the blondes managed to pin the man in a way that was much more comfortable for them and more uncomfortable for the criminal.

DI Lestrade swore when he entered upon arrival at Baker Street. He ordered his team to capture the perpetrator, and then started fussing over Emelia, checking her over for any injuries.

She endured the entire thing with an air of boredom, and then politely asked if she could have a cup of tea. She was handed a shock blanket instead, and forced to sit on the couch and give a statement. She did so, saying, "I was making tea, he came up behind me and tried to strangle me, we struggled, I came out the victor, and can I please have a cup of tea now?" The last bit was a whine, one that showed the girl was irritated at being separated from her cup, and wasting the perfectly good liquid inside by spilling it on the floor.

It wasn't until the Yarders left that John was finally able to grant her wish. She melted around the cup, sipping gratefully as John updated his blog and Sherlock experimented on some human toes.

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**Review, pretty please, my lovelies!**

**~TwoMoon'sLite~**


	2. Negetivity Is My Response

**Hey! Welcome back! Next chapter is in a few lines, but first some notes.**

**Where are all my reviews? I know that 39 of you saw the last chapter, so what the heck? You, as readers, offer me extra incentive to write new chapters every time I get a review. Thus: more reviews = faster updates. You're really harming yourselves here.**

**Ahem... replies to reviews are at the bottom. Sorry for spasing there... I tend to get on my soap box about that stuff.**

**Now that that's done, I love you all! Thanks those of you who have already favorited or followed, and BIG thanks to my pal littleblackneko, who not only reviewed but also agreed to say something about this fic on her tumblr! Go lbn!**

**So Welcome tumblr followers!**

**To wrap up: review and I love everyone who reads :)**

**Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a soap box to torch.**

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**Chapter name comes from: Somewhere I Belong by Linkin Park.**

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**DISCLAIMER:**** I own nothing except Emelia, her backstory (which is completely fictional. I am not Moffat or Gattis. All names are purely fictional and not meant to represent real people. I apologize if I steal your name, purely coincidence, that is.**

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For weeks after the last one, Emelia pondered how she would get on another case. She was dying of boredom when her dads left on a case, that her intelligence was near equal to Sherlock's did not help.

So far she had missed out on dead speckled woman (The idiots at the Yard, mainly Donovan and Anderson, forced her to leave and not even Greg pulling rank helped her out), geeks who run a comic book website, and other determinedly "uninteresting" cases. (All of which John had blogged. Sherlock complained again. Emelia made tea during that time and hid in her room.)

She was trying hard to fight the instinctive need to lash out at someone. The last thing she wanted was to hurt her new family. She knew it was only a matter of time before her haunted past caught up with her, and she wanted the time until then to be pleasant, and for her flat mates not to hate her. To do that, she had to get on a case before she flipped out on someone.

Then it hit her. She grabbed her Canon EOS 5D Mark III 22.3-Megapixel Digital SLR Camera (a Welcome-to-the-Family present from Mycroft, as she had figured out days before) from her desk, and marched out to the living room.

Standing outside her room, she held the fancy camera above her head and announced officially, "Photographer."

John turned to her and raised at an eyebrow to her triumphant expression.

Sherlock responded with a stern "no".

Emelia rolled her eyes. "Come oooooooon," she whined.

"No."

She marched up to him and frowned. The camera made a loud sound as it slammed on the desk, drawing John's attention from the paper to the escalating scuffle. "You hate how the Yard takes pictures. Let me do it."

Sherlock looked at John, who sighed. Did he always have to give the bad news? "Emelia, it's danger-"

"Fine."

Emeila threw her arms around Sherlock, then John. "Thankyouthankyouthankyou!" she gushed.

Then she ran back to her room, leaving her camera and two confused men.

* * *

The next case just so happened to be a fun one.

"There was a plane crash in Düsseldorf yesterday. Everyone dead." DI Lestrade explained as he led the Detective, Doctor and Photographer to the crime scene

"Suspected Terrorist Bomb." Sherlock stated. "I do watch the news."

John made a comment about it being boring to Sherlock, but neither Holmes really heard him. . They were momentarily stopped by Donovan, who raised a great stink about Emelia's presence. Greg pulled rank and Sherlock calmly said that he "needed decent photos of the body that Anderson hasn't mussed up'. Emelia finished by commenting on the slight pink of Anderson's lips, which happened to match Sally's lip gloss. They were allowed to continue on their much-more-merry way.

Lestrade continued at the silver car that was the crime scene while Sherlock checked the trunk and Emelia snapped pictures of the man inside, "Well, according to the flight details, this man was checked in on board. Inside his coat he's got a stub from his boarding pass, napkins from the flight, even one of those special biscuits. Here's his passport stamped in Berlin Airport. So this man should have died in a plane crash in Germany yesterday but instead he's in a car boot in Southwark.."

"Lucky escape." John commented.

"Any ideas?" Emelia asked the taller of her two fathers.

"Eight, so far," the man in question responded. His face crumpled in what Emelia took for confusion and corrected himself. "Okay, four ideas." He examined the passport and ticket stub. "Maybe two ideas."

Overhead, a plane made its loud descent.

* * *

John, naturally, blogged about it.

Only this time, Sherlock had an issue with it.

Emelia and John were in the living room and Sherlock was doing something with his tobacco ash when Em heard Sherlock say something. She looked up from the pictures she had taken of the crime scene to her fathers' conversation.

"No no no don't mention the unsolved ones."

"People want to know you're human." John reasoned.

"Why?"

"Because they're interested." Emelia answered.

"No they're not. Why are they?" Sherlock shot back.

John didn't answer but he did look back at his blog. "Hmm look at that. 1,895."

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock asked.

"I reset that counter last night. This blog has had nearly 2 thousand hits in the last 8 hours. This is your living, Sherlock. Not 240 different types of tobacco ash."

"243." Sherlock and Emelia corrected at the same time.

Sherlock was not pleased and went back to his experiment. John looked at Emelia and she shrugged. Not even Holmeses understand each other sometimes.

* * *

The trio were walking away from another scene, this time in a theatre, when Sherlock asked the most ridiculous question (but not really if you think about it). "So what is this time? Belly Button Murders?"

"The Naval Treatment" John responded.

Sherlock made a disgusted noise that made Emelia giggle. The man worked with human fingers and a name disgusted him!

"Hello, Greg." Emelia chirped as the DI joined then.

"There's a lot of press outside guys, " he informed, ignoring the blonde photographer.

"Well, they won't be interested in us," Sherlock said flatly.

"Yea that was before you were an internet phenomenon," Emelia contradicted.

"Couple of them specifically wanted photographs of you two," Greg informed, causing Sherlock to groan. The DI turned to Emelia. "Sorry, love, they don't know you."

She smiled at him as Sherlock complained. "It's all right, Greg."

They passed a dressing room. "Oh for God's sake! Jawn, " Sherlock said as he ducked inside and returned with two hats. "cover your face with that and walk fast," he instructed, handing the Doctor a hat.

"Still, good for the public image," Lestrade tried to put a positive spin on it, "big case like this."

"I'm a private detective, the last thing I need is a public image." Sherlock said as he led the trio of Holmes-Watsons out the theatre door and into the bright, flashing lights of the press cameras.

* * *

The newspapers exploded. Headlines included _"Hat-man and Robin: The web detectives_", "_Sherlock Net 'Tec_", "_Sherlock & John: Blogger Detectives_" and "_Sherlock Holmes: net phenomenon_". No where did they find mention of the newest partner, Holmes-Watson. Emelia made an exasperated sound and threw the paper she was looking at onto the coffee table.

"Emelia darling, will you help me clean this mess up?" asked Mrs. Hudson.

Emelia got up from the couch, her fathers being upstairs doing...Lord knows what. "Mrs. H, why did only one paper include me? I mean it's not like a 5' 6" blonde teen with a Canon EOS 5D Mark III 22.3-Megapixel Digital SLR Camera is hard to miss."

"It'll pass darling. You'll be in the papers soon enough." The elderly woman gave a sigh at the sight over the dining table and opened the fridge.

"Jeeze, Mrs. H. Can you see what died in there?" Emelia joked, but only halfheartedly as there very well could be a dead body there.

Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes and started to clean out the fridge while Emelia straightened up the desk. The woman made a face at the stench of the fridge and pulled out a bag. "Oh dear. Thumbs." She deposited the bag back.

Just then, a man rounded the corner, jolting both women. "The door was….. the door was," is all he said before the man fainted onto 221B's kitchen floor.

Mrs. Hudson yelled up to John and Sherlock, while Emelia checked on the unconscious man to make sure there was no full dead body now residing in the flat.. "Boys," she yelled, "You've got another one!"

* * *

The man was sat in what Emelia now called the "Sherlock-igation" chair. Sherlock stood in front of him while the male blonde sat on the couch behind him. Emelia went to settle down Mrs. Hudson.

"Tell us from the start. Don't be boring," Sherlock ordered.

In short, the man had been stranded on the side of the road with a broken down car 14 hours earlier. He had spotted a bloke down by a small stream. The man tried to start his car again, with a large boom indicating the car's failure. He got out to check the car and the bloke he had seen earlier was not only hidden from sight, but also dead.

* * *

Sherlock made John drive to the scene.

So when Emelia came up from comforting Mrs. Hudson and making sure the little woman wasn't going to die of a heart attack (how she had lasted so far the girl had no idea), Emelia heard Sherlock and John talking from the bottom of the stairs. She realized that John hadn't left and she climbed the stairs slowly to make sure he would wait.

"Look this is a six," Sherlock was explaining, "There's no point in leaving the flat for anything less than a seven. We agreed. Now go back. Show me the grass."

"When did we agree to that?" John asked.

"Yesterday. Stop, closer."

"I wasn't even at home yesterday. I was in Dublin."

"Well, it's hardly _my_ fault you weren't listening."

Emelia arrived at the top of the stairs. Sherlock was barking orders to his laptop, where John was visible. "What are you doing?" she asked warily.

"Investigating a crime scene. Go away, make tea or something."

Emelia picked at the sheet he was wearing toga-style. "In a sheet?"

"Yes."

She sighed and went to make herself a spot of tea. She was nice and made a cup for Sherlock as well. The doorbell rang, but she made no move to answer it. She heard Sherlock yell at someone to shut up. She ignored Sherlock and John's banter until her tea was ready. Then she set it and Sherlock's next to the laptop and pulled up a chair. "So how goes it?"

Sherlock ignored her. "Now, show me the car that backfired."

"It's there." John said.

"That's the one that made the noise, yes?" Emelia asked, trying to join into the case.

"Yea. If you're thinking gunshot, there wasn't one. He wasn't killed by a gunshot. He was killed by a single blow to the back of the head by a blunt instrument, which then magically disappeared. Along with the killer."

"That's got to be an eight at least," Em commented.

"Just a few more minutes, then I want to know more about the driver," the active head investigator told them.

"Oh just forget him," Emelia dissmissed, "He's an idiot. Why else would he think himself a suspect?"

"I think he's a suspect," the investigator countered, making both Holmeses roll their eyes.

"Pass us over," Sherlock commanded.

"Alright, but there is a mute button and I will use it," John warned.

"Up a bit! I'm not talking from down 'ere."

An unknown face replaced John's as the doctor shoved the laptop into the man's hands, clearly fed up with Sherlock's antics.

"Having driven to an isolated location and successfully committed a crime without a single witness, why would he then call the police and consult a detective. Fair play?" Sherlock mocked, rattling off deductions with lightning-fast speed..

"He's trying to be clever. He's over confident."

"Oh Lord now you've done it..." Emelia groaned.

"Did you see him? Morbidly obese, the undisguised halitosis of a single man living on his own, the right sleeve of an internet porn addict and the breathing pattern of an untreated heart condition. Low self-esteem, tiny IQ and a limited life expectancy – and you think he's an audacious criminal mastermind?!" He turned to the man in question behind him, "Don't worry this is just stupid."

The man was confused to say the least, " What did you say? Heart what?"

Emelia turned to him for a moment, "Heart condition, untreated. Do at lease try to keep up. Don't waste your IQ points worrying over it, though," she said with a sweet smile, "You have so few. Wouldn't want you to run out now would we?" She turned her attention back to the webcam.

"Huh, what?" the man asked, clearly unaware of the insults just given to him.

"Go to the stream." Sherlock ordered.

"What's in the stream?" the investigator asked.

"Go and see," Emelia advised.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson whined, having come upstairs followed by two large men in black suits, "You weren't answering your doorbell."

"His rooms are in the back, get him some clothes," one of them said to the other.

"His clothes are in the hall closet," Emelia corrected, "Those are mine. No touch, buster."

"Who the hell are you?" Sherlock questioned.

"Sorry, Mr. Holmes," the first man said, "You're coming with us." He shut the laptop, cutting off John's image.

"Where you take him, you take me too." Emelia demanded, folding her arms in an attempt to look more stubborn, which worked well with her black military-style dress, including heavy, thick-soled ankle boots. The man looked her up and down once.

"Fine, come with us." The other man came down and placed clothes in front of Sherlock. His partner spoke, "Please, Mr. Holmes, where you're going, you'll want to be dressed."

Sherlock got that look on his face that meant he was deducing someone then said, "I know exactly where we're going."

No one noticed Emelia grimace, as they were locked in a death-battle staring contest.

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Katherine Winchester: Glad to hear it! You're wish is my command, I already have the next chapter typed!

Azzy97: I'm so happy that you read the first try at this! Thank you, and no problem :) In actuality, littleblackneko showed me the video first, I just carried it over. Thank her too!

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**REVIEW! Please?**

**~TwoMoon'sLite~**


	3. Memories Are What Start Wars

**HAI GUYS! **

**This is coming along faster than expected. Awesome yea?**

**Anyways, this chapter is a biggie. A whopping 4, 119 words. WOO! I probably bored my poor beta to death... -.- Sorry!**

**READERS! WHY YOU NO REVIEW MY WRITING? Why?! Am I bad and you just can't tell me? I'm a mature person, I can take it. Promise!**

**Anyway, have fun reading this chap. I would have shortened it, but could find no suitable place to do so. Please don't shoot me.**

**For complaint/praise department: type in box below story, then click the white button to the southwest of the comment box. Thank you. PM's are also accepted, but comments are best placed when they are in the box.**

**Thanks for tolerating me dolls! All... 58 of you... That number astounds me. I did not expect that...**

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**Inspiration for the name of this chapter comes from: You're Going Down by Sick Puppies**

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**DISCLAIMER:**** I own nothing except Emelia, her backstory (which is completely fictional. I am not Moffat or Gattis. All names are purely fictional and not meant to represent real people. I apologize if I steal your name, purely coincidence, that is.**

* * *

Emelia saw John enter first, mainly because she was watching the door and Sherlock was sulking (still in his sheet).  
John made a gesture that asked what they were doing in Buckingham Palace and Emelia shrugged.  
John nodded and sat on one of the two fancy couches, so that the three of them was on one couch. It was completely silent as John looked over at Sherlock.  
"Are you wearing any pants?" he asked, face completely emotionless.  
"No," Sherlock responded.  
"Okay."  
Then John looked at Sherlock and the trio's façade crumbled as they dissolved into laughter.  
"At Buckingham Palace, fine," John laughed some more.  
"I am seriously fighting an impulse to steal an ash tray," Emelia admitted with a smile.  
After some more laughing John asked the question that had been on all their minds. "What are we doing here, I mean seriously, what?"  
"I don't know," the Detective answered.  
"Here to see the queen?" Emelia guessed.  
A man walked in to the room as Sherlock answered "Apparently so."  
"Just once, can you two behave like grown-ups?" The man asked with an annoyed tone. He wore an expensively tailored suit.  
"We solve crimes, John blogs about it, and he forgets his pants," Emelia reasoned, nodding to Sherlock at the pants bit, "I wouldn't hold up too much hope."  
"And who are you?" The man asked.  
Emelia stood and held out her hand, managing to look remarkably businesslike, despite her fathers' laughter. "Emelia Genevieve Holmes-Watson, amateur photographer and assistant to Sherlock Holmes. And you are, sir?"  
"Mycroft Holmes, your apparent uncle."  
"Ah yes, Mymy, the man-with-the-plan, British Government, camera man Mycroft."

"So you did get my present."

" Why are we here? I was in the middle of a case, Mycroft."  
"What? The hiker and the backfire? I glanced at the police report. Bit obvious really."  
"Transparent," agreed Sherlock. John and Emelia exchanged confused looks.  
"Time to move on then," Mycroft declared. He picked up Sherlock's clothes and attempted to hand them to his brother, who made no move to receive them. "We are in Buckingham Palace, now the very heart of the British Nation. Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on." Emelia realized that the powerful tone Sherlock often used when giving commands was a family trait.  
"What for?"  
"Your client."  
"And my client is?" prompted the younger Holmes, standing up to match his brother's height.  
"Illustrious," a new man answered for Mycroft, "in the extreme. And remaining, I have to inform you, entirely anonymous." He turned to Mycroft warmly, the other doing the same, exchanging names and a handshake.  
"May I just apologize for the state of my little brother," Mycroft stated.  
"Full time occupation," the man whom Mycroft had called Harry mumbled, "And this must be Dr. John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."  
"Hello," said John, "yes."  
"My employer is a tremendous fan of your blog."  
"Your employer?" Emelia questioned. "Oh pardon me, sir, Emelia Holmes-Watson, pleased to meet you."  
"Ah yes, the photographer. Yes, John, my employer particularly enjoyed the one about the aluminum crutch."  
John sent Sherlock a look that said "Told ya so."  
"And Mr. Homes the younger. You look taller in your photographs."  
"I take the precaution of a good coat and a small friend. Mycroft, I don't do anonymous clients. I'm used to mystery at one end of my cases, both ends is too much work. Good Morning." Sherlock stood and made for the exit, leaving his family standing confusedly behind him.  
It would have went better is Mycroft hadn't stepped on the sheet. It fell to Sherlock's waist, the frantic action of collecting said sheet drew everyone's attention, except for Emelia. She was pointedly looking anywhere but her father, a blush apparent on her cheeks.  
"This is a matter of national importance," Mycroft growled. "Grow up."  
"Get off my sheet," Sherlock growled back.  
"Or what?"  
"Or I'll just walk away."  
"I'll let you."  
"Boys," John warned, "please, not here."  
"Who. Is. My. Client," Sherlock strangled out.  
"Take a look at where you're standing and make a deduction. You are to be engaged by the highest in the land, now for God's sake - put your clothes on," Mycroft responded tersely, clearly losing his patience with his younger brother.  
Sherlock looked ready to argue.  
"Sherlock, put your clothes on or I...I'll hide all your Bunsen burners and petri dishes!" Emelia shouted.

* * *

Emelia smiled at the elder men as they spoke. It seemed as if Sherlock and Emelia had switched demeanors, the girl becoming like an adult and Sherlock like a child (complete with sulk). Mycroft went to pour tea, stating that he was "being mother"*.

"And there is a whole childhood in a nutshell." Sherlock muttered.

Emelia and Mycroft shot glances at him before the girl continued, eager to be out of their current posh setting.  
"So," she said, "shall we get on then? I do believe my father is getting anxious."  
"My employer has a problem," Harry explained.  
"A matter has come to light, of an extremely delicate and potentially criminal nature, and in this hour of need, dear brother," The sarcasm of Mycroft's voice vas obvious, "your name has arisen."  
"Why? You have a police force of sorts, even a marginally secret service. Why come to me?" Sherlock questioned.  
"You cannot _not _insult the Yard for one day can you?" Emelia sighed.  
"People come to you for help. Don't they Mr. Holmes.?"  
Sherlock hummed positively. "Not to date, anyone with a navy."  
"This is a matter of the highest security, and therefore of trust."  
"You don't trust your own secret service?" John stated questioningly.  
"Naturally not." Mycroft replied.  
"They all spy on people for money, why would you?" Emelia commented.  
"I do think we have a timetable," Harry reminded Mycroft.  
"Yes, of course." Mycroft opened a briefcase and pulled out pictures, "What do you know about this woman?"  
Sherlock took them. "Nothing whatsoever."  
"Then you should be paying more attention. She's been at the center of 2 political scandals in the last year, and recently ended the marriage of a prominent novelist, by having an affair with both participants...seprately," Mycroft explained.  
"You know I don't concern myself with trivia. Who is she?"  
"Irene Adler." Emelia's head snapped towards the pictures but none of the men noticed. Mycroft continued, "Professionally known as The Woman."  
"Professionally?" asked John, still clueless to Emelia's now rapid sortment of the pictures.  
"There are many words for what she does. She prefers Dominatrix."  
"Dominatrix," Sherlock repeated.  
"Don't be alarmed," Mycroft warned," It has to do with sex."  
"Sex doesn't alarm me."  
"How would you know?" Mycroft laughed. He continued, "She provides recreational scolding for those who enjoy that sort of thing and are prepared to pay for it. These are all from her website." Mycroft handed Sherlock more photographs.  
"And I assume this Adler woman has some compromising photographs." Sherlock said after he finished looking through the pictures.  
"Very quick Mr. Holmes," Harry complemented.  
"Hardly a difficult deduction," Emelia quipped, stealing the photos from Sherlock, "Photographs of whom?"  
"A person of significance to my employer. We would prefer not to say anymore at this time."  
"You can't tell us anything?" John was skeptical.  
"I can tell you it's a young person," Mycroft began, "A young female person."  
There was a tense silence. Emelia glanced nervously at the photos again, a movement just now noticed by Mycroft.  
"How many photographs?" Sherlock asked.  
"A considerable number apparently."  
"So you have no idea." Emelia clarified.  
"Do miss Adler and this young female appear in these photographs together?" Sherlock was in interrogation mode.  
"Yes." Mycroft said sharply.  
"And I assume in a number of compromising scenarios."  
"An imaginative range, we are assured."  
"John, you might want to put that cup back in its saucer now."  
"Can you help us Mr. Holmes?" Harry asked.  
"How?" the man countered.  
"You take the case."  
"What case? Pay her. Now and in full. As Miss Adler marks in her masthead, 'know when you are beaten'." Emelia rolled her eyes with the grown-ups' stupidity. Sherlock grabbed his coat.  
"She doesn't want anything." Mycroft announced. "She got in touch, informed us that the photographs existed. She indicated she had no intention of using them to extort money or favor. "  
"Oh, a power play," Sherlock remarked, now looking interested, "A power play with the most powerful family in Britain. Now that is a Dominatrix. Ooh. This is getting rather fun isn't it."  
"Sherlock," John warned.  
"Hmm. Where is she?"  
"I believe London, currently. She is staying-"  
"Text me the details.I'll be in touch by the end of the day." Sherlock gathered his coat and the Doctor and the Photographer had no choice but to follow.  
"You really think you'll have news by then?" Harry seemed to be in disbelief.  
"No, I think I'll have the photographs," Sherlock replied.  
"Well I can only hope that you're as good as you seem to think."  
Sherlock got the deducting face again and then announced, "I'll need some equipment of course."  
"Anything you require, I'll have it sent to the-" Mycroft was again cut off by his younger brother.  
"Can I have a box of matches?"  
"I'm sorry." Harry said.  
"Or your cigarette lighter either will do."  
"I don't smoke," Harry stated.  
"No, I know you don't but your employer does."  
"We have kept a lot of people in the dark about this little fact, Mr. Holmes."  
"I'm not the common mirth." Sherlock took the lighter and made to leave.  
"And that's as modest as he gets. Pleasure to meet you." John said as he followed.  
"Indeed," Emelia added, following John out," See you at Thanksgiving, uncle Mycroft, ya?"  
"La'ers!" Sherlock yelled over his shoulder.

* * *

In the cab back to Baker Street, John asked, "Okay, the smoking. How did you know?"  
Sherlock's lips curved into a smile, as did Emelia's. "The evidence was right under your nose John, as ever you see but do not observe."  
"Observe what?"  
"An ashtray." Emelia stated as her partner-in-crime withdrew the crystal piece from his coat. Sherlock flipped it over twice then deposited it back into his hiding place.  
The small family laughed together over the triumph.

* * *

Back at the flat, Emelia sat in one of the chairs, across from John. She had one knee on the seat, a large book propped up on it. The marker scribbled on the front of the book proclaimed it to be "John Watson's Encyclopedia of Medical Terms". Sherlock was tossing shirts and jackets out of his room.

"What are you doing?" John asked.

"Reading an encyclopedia," Emelia replied flatly.

"Going to battle Jawn. I need the right armor." Sherlock replied, stepping out of the room in a fireman's jacket. "Nope." He dove back into his room.

John turned his attention back to their 15-year old. "Why? Don't you have some teen romance novel you could read?"

She rolled her eyes at John. "I hardly have any want to read a sappy, pointless love story John. I need something with more fact and less emotion. Your encyclopedia will do nicely."

Twenty minutes later, the Holmes-Watsons sat squished into a cab.

"So what's the plan?" Em asked.

"We go to her address." Sherlock replied.

"So we just ring the doorbell?"

"Exactly," Sherlock spoke to the cabbie, "Just here please."

"You didn't even change your clothes," John remarked.

"Then it's time to add a splash of color."

Sherlock walked down an ally, his blonde companions following him.

"We're here?" John asked.

"Two streets away, but this'll do." Sherlock had removed his scarf.

"For what?

"Punch me in the face."

"Punch you?" Emelia clarified.

"Yes. Punch me. In the face. Didn't you hear me?"

John and Emelia shared a look before John explained, "We always hear punch me in the face when you're speaking but it's usually subtext."

Sherlock angered by John's slowness, muttered, "Oh for God's sake," and punched John.

John punched Sherlock back, while Emelia watched the unfolding fight in horror. After Sherlock recovered from the punch however, she was shocked to see John tackle the taller man to the ground.

"John!" She cried out in alarm.

"Okay, I think we're done now, Jawn!" Sherlock called as John attempted to strangle him. Emelia rushed to pull her fathers apart.

"You don't remember Sherlock, I was a soldier," John choked out," I killed people."

"You were a doctor!" Emelia cried. She pulled on John's collar. When that failed, she tried to shove the two apart.

"I had bad days!"

Emelia, desperate to save Sherlock, grabbed a fistful of John's hair and pulled. The sudden pain made John loosen his hold, and Sherlock escaped. "Must have been hell," Emelia commented.

* * *

Sherlock rang the doorbell and gave his prepared speech, proving himself to be a marvelous actor. "I'm sorry to disturb you," he said, tripping over the carefully selected words, "I'm... I've just been attacked. And... And... And I think they took my wallet. And... And... And my phone. And please could you help me?" he finished with a begging voice.

"I could call the police if you want," the receptionist offered.

"Thank you, could you please? Ah... would you... would you mind if I just waited here? Just until they come. Thank you, thank you so much."

"Of course." The door did not open even though the speaker crackled before dying. John looked to Sherlock, who looked at the speaker in disbelief.

Emelia rolled her eyes and pushed Sherlock out of the way. The speaker crackled once more as Emelia spoke, "Kate? Are you still there?"

"Emelia? Is that you?"

"Yes, it's me. Can you open the door? Let Reney know I'm here as well please darling?"

"Of course Emelia! Are you alone?"

"No, tell her I brought friends. Door, Kate?"

"Oh yes of course." The door opened and a woman with fiery ginger hair embraced Emelia. "Oh do come this way, love. She'll be receiving in the White Room."

"Thank you Kate. My friend requires assistance."

John stepped foreward, "It's okay I'm a doctor. Have you got a first aid kit?"

"In the kitchen."

"Thank you, Kate."

"Yes, Miss Golbernetti."

"Holmes-Watson, Kate."

"Of course."

John went to retrieve it and Kate led the Holmeses to all white sitting room. Once free of Kate, Sherlock dropped his act. He sat closer to the door, effectively hiding Emelia from the sight of anyone who wasn't in the room.

"What the hell was that!" Sherlock questioned.

"Shut up and let me speak, understand? No words."

"Wha-"

"No. Words."

"Emelia, darling! I'm sorry to hear your friend has been hurt," A new voice said, "I don't think Kate caught his name."

Sherlock turned to the new voice, facade back up, ignoring Emelia, who stood and had never looked more like a statue. "I'm so sorry, I'm..." He lost his voice as he looked to the nude woman in the doorway.

"Ah, it's always hard to remember an alias when you've had a fright," the woman remarked, coming towards Sherlock and Emelia, "Isn't it? There now," she comforted, without sounding comforting at all. She took part of Sherlock's "disguise" and pulled it off, "Now we're both defrocked. Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"Miss Adler, I presume?"

"Look at those cheekbones. I could cut myself slapping that face. Would you like me to try?"

Only then did the woman notice Emelia. "Emelia?" She questioned.

"Hello, Miss Adler. Long time, no see," She all but spat, clearly not on good terms with this woman.

Then John walked in with water and a rag, drawing the attention of all. "Right, this'll do it..." He noticed Irene, "I've missed something, haven't I?"

Irene turned on the charm. "Please, sit down. Or if you'd like some tea I can call the maid."

"I had some at the Palace," Sherlock told her.

"I know."

"Clearly."

"I had a tea too. At the Palace. If anyone was interested," John interjected.

"Of course, John. I was interested," Emelia smiled at her father sensing his unease about this naked woman attempting to steal his detective.

Sherlock got that deducing face as her looked at Irene. His brow creased and he looked at John. The brow uncreased. He looked to Irene. Creased brow.

"Do you know the big problem with a disguise Mr. Holmes? However hard you tried, it's always a self-portrait."

"You think I'm vicar with a bleeding face."

"Damn near delusional and believe in a higher power."

"In his case, it's himself," Emelia piped up. Sherlock glared at her.

"Somebody loves you, "Irene commented, leaning closer to Sherlock's face. John's eyes shot to Sherlock an Emelia's shot to John for just a moment.

"If I had to punch that face, I'd avoiding your nose and teeth too." Irene looked at John.

Emelia and John laughed awkwardly. "Could you put something on please?" Emelia asked.

"Anything at all. Napkin, even?" John followed up.

"Why? Are you feeling exposed?"

"John just doesn't know where to look. Miss Adler, please," Emelia begged.

"Don't 'Miss Adler' me, young lady."

"Shut up and put this on." Irene glared as Emelia shoved the nearest coat, Sherlock's, at the older woman. She obliged the young girl.

"Would someone explain what happened here?" John asked.

"This is my aunt. Her sister was my mother."

"Oh yes, sickly little thing she was."

Emelia growled. "_Shut up_."

Irene laughed. "Ah, so you do have your father's temper. Tell me: do you have his evil streak as well?'

"Irene! We are here for a purpose. Please do not deviate from it, as you know what it is." Emelia's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Fine. You ruin all my fun. Very well, how was it done?"

"What?" Sherlock asked, needing clarification.

"The hiker with the bashed-in head. How was he killed?"

Emelia was restraining herself, shaking visibly with the effort of not wrapping her slender hands around her aunt's throat. "That's not what we're here for."

"No, no, no, you're here for the photographs but that's never gonna happen, and since we're here just chatting anyway," she trailed off.

"That story's not been on the news yet. How do you know about it?" John asked.

"I know one of the policemen."

"What he likes, more like it."

"Don't sass me, Emelia."

"You abandoned me, I'll do whatever the hell I want, Woman!"

"So…. You like policemen?" John sounded awkward, but his daughter was grateful that he was trying to help her, unlike the sulking detective.

"I like detective stories – _and_ detectives. Brainy's the new sexy."

"Positionofthecar, " Sherlock muttered. The other occupants of the room looked towards him, two faces of understanding mixed with confusion and one of pure dumbfounded, amazement. "Er…the position of the car relative to the hiker at the time of the backfire. That and the fact that the death blow was to the back of the head. That's all you need to know."

"Okay, tell me: how was he murdered?"

"He wasn't," Emelia almost whispered, realization dawning on her.

"You don't think it was murder?"

"I know it wasn't," Sherlock boasted.

"How?" Irene asked, enthralled.

"The same way that I know the victim was an excellent sportsman recently returned from foreign travel and that the photographs I'm looking for are in this room."

"Okay, but how?"

"So they _are_ in this room. Thank you. John, man the door. Let no-one in, "Sherlock ordered, sharing a significant look with the blogger. He exited the room, closing the door behind him.

The tall man began to pace. "Two men alone in the countryside several yards apart, and one car."

"Oh. I – I thought you were looking for the photos now."

"No, no. Looking takes ages. He's just going to find them but you're moderately clever and we've got a moment, so let's pass the time," Emelia explained in a sickly sweet voice, almost causing the others to shiver.

Sherlock continued, "Two men, a car, and nobody else. The driver's trying to fix his engine. Getting nowhere. And the hiker's taking a moment, looking at the sky. Watching the birds? Any moment now, something's gonna happen. What?"

"The hiker's going to die," Irene states.

"No, that's the result. What's going to _happen_?" Emelia rolled her eyes.

"I don't understand."

"Well, try to."

"Why?"

"Because you cater to the whims of the pathetic and take your clothes off to make an impression," Sherlock snaps, "Stop boring me and think. It's the new sexy."

"The car's going to backfire," Irene tries.

"There's going to be a loud noise," Emelia continues for her, earning a glare.

"So, what?" Irene becomes moody.

Sherlock makes no attempt to rectify the situation, instead continuing, "Oh, noises are important. Noises can tell you everything. For instance," he trails off as the smoke alarm begins to beep. Irene's head swivels to the large mirror placed over the fireplace.

Emelia smiled smugly. "Thank you. On hearing a smoke alarm, a mother would look towards her child. Amazing how fire exposes our priorities."

Sherlock, meanwhile, ran his hands under the mantle until he found a switch. The mirror slid upward to reveal a secret wall safe. "_Really_ hope you don't have a baby in here," he joked.

Emelia shouted out to John," All right, John, you can turn it off now." The beeping continued. "I said you can turn it off now!"

"Give me a minute," John's voice shouted from beyond the door.

The beeping stopped. Sherlock examined the safe. "Hmm. Should always use gloves with these things, you know. Heaviest oil deposit's always on the first key used – that's quite clearly the three – but after that the sequence is almost impossible to read. I'd say from the make that it's a six digit code. Can't be your birthday – no disrespect but clearly you were born in the eighties; the eight's barely used, so," he trailed off.

"I'd tell you the code right now but you know what? I already have," Irene says smugly. When both Holmeses frown at her, she adds, "Think."

A second later, the door bursts open to reveal four large black-suited men and one disappointed John. The seeming leader speaks. "Hands behind your head," all comply and he nods to Emelia and Irene, "On the floor. Keep it still."

One man stands behind each woman, who are soon joined by John. John kneels on the floor obediently, while Irene and Emelia resist. The leader repeats his command and Irene is forced to her knees easily. Emelia holds firm, face set in grim determination. It takes two men to force her to her knees. The leader trains his gun on Sherlock.

"Don't you want me on the floor too?" Sherlock asks.

"No, sir, I want you to open the safe."

Sherlock frowns a bit. "American. Interesting. Why would _you_ care?" He glances at Irene.

"Sir, the safe, _now_, please," the lead thug demands. His colleagues press the butt of their cold guns to neck of the three on the floor. The kiss of metal makes Emelia let out a tiny squeak.

"I don't know the code."

"We've been listening. She said she told you."

"Well, if you'd been listening, you'd know she _didn't_," Sherlock counters.

"I'm assuming I missed something. From your reputation, I'm assuming you _didn't_, Mr. Holmes."

"For God's Sake!" John shouts.

"_She's_ the one who knows the code. Ask her!" Emelia adds, looking at Irene.

"Yes, ma'am. She also knows the code that automatically calls the police and sets off the burglar alarm. I've learned not to trust this woman."

"Mr. Holmes doesn't-"Irene begins, only to be interrupted by the lead thug.

"Shut up. One more word out of you – just one – and I will decorate that wall with the insides of your head. That, for me, will not be a hardship."

Sherlock glared at the man, as did Emelia. Abandonment or not, family was family and she preferred not to have family on the wallpaper.

"Mr. Archer. At the count of three, shoot Doctor Watson," the leader commands.

"What?" John and Emelia shout at the same time. John cowers a bit as Archer presses the gun further into his neck. Emelia looks worriedly at her blonde father, or as much as one can when a gun is on your neck.

"I don't have the code," Sherlock explains.

"One."

"I don't have the code!" He says, with more emotion.

"Two."

"She didn't tell me." He starts to yell, "I don't know it!"

"I'm prepared to believe you any second now."

Sherlock gives a panicked look to Irene, who stares downward.

"Three," the leader calls.

"No, stop!" Both Holmeses yell. (Well, Emelia screamed, Sherlock yelled.)

The leader stops Archer with a wave of his hand. John closes his eyes. Sherlock tentatively reaches out to the keypad. He enters the code slowly, and in pairs: 32 24 34

The safe clicks open.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Open it, please."

Sherlock reaches for the door.

* * *

**Katherine Winchester : Yay! And I plan to, doll ;)**

**Azzy97 : That may or may not be because I... I um... maybe copy the lines and add Emelia? :)**

**Thanks to you to for reviewing... again. Truly, thanks!**

* * *

***Being Mother: it just means that Mycroft is pouring tea. As I understand it, traditionally only one person is allowed to pour tea, and that person is "being mother". I had to look it up myself.**

**REVIEW PLEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAASE!**

**~TwoMoon'sLite~**


	4. You've Broken All Your Promises

**Hello internet people! I am soooo happy right now! So happy that...**

**I'm going to be really really really nice and do this: the 16th person to review this story gets... a quote or moment of their choice integrated into the next chapter! So you want kittens, you'll get kittens. You want Mystrade, sure. But you may only win if you review.**

**Sadly, I may not be able to do it if my beta doesn't hurry up. *hint, hint there lbn!* That is why it is taking so long to update. If any of you readers would like to beta along with her (she will be primary beta) then PM me or put that in your review. Because she took so long, this chapter is not beta'd. SO good luck.**

**Thanks to all who have favorited or followed this story! And especially you reviewers!**

* * *

**Inspiration for chapter name: Why by Secondhand Serenade**

* * *

**DISCLAIMER:**** I own nothing except Emelia, her backstory (which is completely fictional). I am not Moffat or Gattis. All names are purely fictional and not meant to represent real people. I apologize if I steal your name, purely coincidence, that is.**

* * *

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. Open it, please."

Sherlock reaches for the door. Before pulling it open, he risks a glance at Irene. She gazes intently at the floor and makes a small jerk with her head. The dark-haired man turns back to the safe.

"Vatican Cameos," Sherlock urgently mutters.

John throws himself into Emelia, taking them both to the floor. Sherlock rips open the door as he ducks, the tripwire inside pulling the trigger of a hidden gun and shooting John's "guard". Sherlock takes the leader's gun from him and smashes the butt of the gun hard across his face. He drops. Irene turns and elbows her guard in the groin. The guard crumples and Irene takes his gun, pointing it at the guard. Emelia, having rolled out from under John, trips her guard with one leg, shoving him forcefully to the ground with one hand. He drops headfirst onto the tile, blood streaming out his nose from the impact.

Sherlock turned to Irene, "D' you mind?"

"Not at all." Irene smashed the gun into her guard's face, who had been making a poor attempt at getting up. Sherlock took a small black object from the safe.

John takes Archer's pulse, only to find none. "He's dead."

Emelia nods, thanking John for confirming what everyone else knew already.

Irene ignores John, instead turning to Sherlock. "Thank you. You were very observant."

"Observant?" John questions.

"I'm flattered," Irene continues.

Emelia groaned. Sherlock replied, "Don't be."

"Flattered?" John was still confused.

"There'll be more of them. They'll be keeping a eye on the building," Emelia pointed out.

Sherlock removed part of the leader's gun. Emelia grabbed her guard's gun as well. John, meanwhile, tucked Archer's gun into his back pocket. The trio exited the sitting room and made their way into the street.

"We should call the police."

"Yes," the Holmeses agreed, raising their guns in tandem and firing multiple rounds each.

"On their way," Sherlock noted with a smile.

"Oh for God's sake!"

"Oh shut up. It's quick, John," Emelia said with a knowing look.

They entered the sitting room once more, and Sherlock looked at Irene before turning to the Watsons, "Check the rest of the house. See how they got in."

The two blondes nodded before heading separate ways.

Emelia went to the kitchen and around the first floor, checking windows and doors. She found nothing. "First floor clear!" she shouted, just as John shouted for Sherlock. Emelia rushed up the stairs as Sherlock opened the sitting room door.

John was knelt next to an unconscious Kate in one of the bedrooms upstairs. He was checking her breathing. Emelia ran to the open bathroom door, leaning a bit out the also open window. Sherlock entered followed by Irene.

"They came through here," Emelia explained, going to hover near John and, subsequently, Kate.

"Clearly."

"Well, gee Sherlock. No need to be so nice about it."

"I wasn't trying to be."

"I was being sarcastic."

Sherlock huffed and went to look out the window.

John noticed Irene looking anxiously at Kate. "It's all right. She's just out cold," he said, attempting to make her feel better.

"Well, God knows she's used to that. There's a back door. Better check it, Doctor Watson."

"Already done, _Auntie Reney_," Emelia added in a sickly sing-song voice.

Irene glared at her.

"Emelia, help me relocate Kate for when she wakes up."

"Of course, John."

They each slung one of the redhead's arms around their neck and moved the woman out of that bedroom and into another. Emelia led John to an empty room and the two set Kate on the bed. Emelia heard something, a thud, and ran out of the room, back into the one where Sherlock and Irene had been left. Only Sherlock was there, and he was on the floor, blinking excessively. Irene stood above him.

"Jesus Christ woman! What the hell have you done to Sherlock?" Emelia shouted.

"He'll sleep for a few hours. Make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit. It makes for a very unattractive corpse," Irene explained vaguely, sitting herself on the windowsill.

John entered just as Emelia was picking up a syringe from the floor. "What the hell did you give him?"

"He'll be fine. I've used it on loads of my friends."

John knelt down next to Sherlock. "Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

"You she-devil," Emelia stalked towards her aunt, "how dare you? How dare you?"

"You know, I was wrong about him. He _did_ know where to look."

"Where to look…. For your damned safe code? Really?" Emelia grabbed her aunt by the collar of Sherlock's coat (which she was still wearing).

"What was it?" John asked.

"Shall I tell him?" Irene asked the struggling Sherlock.

Emelia shook her. "Tell me you witch! What was in there?"

Irene eyed John. Emelia threw her arms up in exasperation as Irene answered, "My measurements." The Woman jumped out the open window, as police sirens sounded in the background.

* * *

Sherlock jerked into a semi-conscious state. He was in a bed. Irene was hunched over him. "Hush now, "The Woman whispered, "It's okay. I'm only returning your coat."

"You. What the hell are you doing here?" Emelia came into view, face contorted_. Oh, she took the couch._

"Emelia, I'm only returning what is his," Irene explained.

"Get out. Get away from him!" Emelia yelled, shoving her aunt harshly and stepping between the two adults.

"Emelia! I promise I won't hurt him!"

"Why should I believe you? What promises have you ever kept?!"

"Emelia! I mean it this time!"

"Get out of here! No one wants you here! Stay away from us!"

"Don't you understand? I did it to protect you, you ungrateful weevil!"

"Bullshit!"

"I was forced!"

"Just get out! Leave me alone! Don't touch them!"

"I have no choice! I have to, Emelia!"

"Get away from us, you whore! Don't come back."

"Emelia…"

"Don't you understand? GET OUT! Get out of my house!"

"You don't belong here and you know it!"

How had John not heard them yet? The two women were spitting in each other's faces.

"I said get out!"

"Come home, Em. To me…."

"No! This is my family. Now get out, bitch. Before I shove you out the window."

"Tell your father I said hi when he awakes."

"You whore! Never come near my father again!" Where was this protective streak coming from? Emelia's father was dead, to the drowsy detective's knowledge.

Irene sat on the windowsill, "Just remember who your real family is Emelia Genevieve."

"Yeah. The ones that didn't abandon me."

"Blood is thicker than water, darling." Irene rolled out of the window.

Emelia shook her head, coming over to the bed. She sat on the edge. She smoothed out the sheet, tucking the detective snugly into bed. She sighed.

Sherlock somehow managed to roll his head to look at her better.

"Oh Sherlock. I hope you never find my past. I've worked too hard for this, for family," She kissed the detective's forehead. "If abandonment is what blood is all about, then I'll take water. G'night… Dad." Another kiss and the soft click of a door.

_Why did she call me Dad? What past is she talking about?_ Sherlock frowned. _Of course, the_ one _tolerable child is a complete mystery to him._

* * *

"John?"

Emelia and John looked at each other, she from the kitchen, he from his chair.

"John!"

"Well, he's up. Go on then, John. Don't keep the man waiting," Emelia waved on her fair-haired father.

John opened the door, and Emelia listened to their conversation.

"You okay?"

"How did I get here?"

"Well, I don't suppose you remember much. You weren't making a lot of sense. Oh, I should warn you: I think Lestrade filmed you on his phone."

"Where is she?"

"Where's who?"

"The woman. That woman."

"What woman? Emelia's in the kitchen."

"No! _The_ woman. The _woman_ woman!"

"What, Irene Adler? She got away. No-one saw her. She wasn't here, Sherlock. What are you ...? What ...? No, no, no, no. Back to bed. You'll be fine in the morning. Just sleep."

"Of course I'll be fine. I _am_ fine. I'm absolutely fine." Sherlock was slurring. Most definitely not fine.

"Yes, you're great. Now I'll be next door if you need me."

"Why would I need you?" Emelia rolled her eyes. For a genius, Sherlock was pretty dumb.

"No reason at all."

John shut the door and returned to Emelia.

"So, John, can I call you John?"

"Emelia, you can call me anything you want except Late for Dinner," John responded, cracking a smile.

"John, why don't you just tell Sherlock you like him?"

John froze. "Wh-what?"

"I mean seriously John. You're both grown men."

"I'm not gay."

"The way you stare at Dad says different."

"Oh, so you're calling him Dad now?"

"Don't change the subject John."

John sighed. "Alright, you win Em. I don't tell him because…. Well because he's asexual."

"Asexual? Hardly."

"Have you look at your father? He's married to his work! Enough. I'm not gay."

"Nope. You're bi."

"Will you- Whatever. The fact is, Sherlock is asexual, he doesn't do people or relationships. Goodnight." John stomped upstairs and Emelia looked to the skull on the mantelpiece.

"They're both idiots, aren't they, Yorick?"

In her mind, Yorick the skull replied, "Absolutely, Emelia doll."

"Dad's not asexual….. he's Johnsexual."

Emelia and imaginary-Yorick shared a laugh. Emelia drained her tea then crawled onto the couch to catch a few hours of sleep.

* * *

**Katherine Winchester : The sass and the strength is meant to be more accentuation of her being Sherlock and John's daughter: John's strength and Sherlock's wit.**

**CaptainoftheUSSTardis: I'm glad you do! I'm excited for the revamp too.**

**FireIceRagingDetective: Yay! Thank you. I also know that no one is made of steel, but I promise Em shows weakness. John was just beginning. I have more, as you put it "vulnerability" planned, trust me. The idea I'm going for is to make her seem tough, almost cold, then slowly reveal her story. Once that happens, you'll know just how vulnerable Emelia REALLY is.**

**littleblackneko: You, stop reviewing and get back to beta-ing. And besides, I already know that :)**

* * *

**I know that bit at the bottom is kinda weird and out of place, but there was so little Johnlock, I gave it to y'all.**

**Review if you liked/hated. Don't be shy.**

**~TwoMoon'sLite~**


	5. Tragedy Is Around The Bend

**Hi everybody. I am sorry to say this may be the last chapter for a while, unless my beta HURRIES UP WITH THE BETA-ING. HINT. HINT, THERE. Thanks to the many people who have faveorited or followed, or both!**

**Anyway, thanks again for all who review.**

**That's pretty much it.**

**Kay, so enjoy!**

* * *

**Song inspiration: Sally's Song by various artists (it's from the Nightmare Before Christmas, dude.)**

* * *

**DISCLAIMER:**** I own nothing except Emelia, her backstory (which is completely fictional). I am not Moffat or Gattis. All names are purely fictional and not meant to represent real people. I apologize if I steal your name, purely coincidence, that is.**

* * *

John was sitting at the table in the living room, eating breakfast. Sherlock sat nearby, reading the newspaper. Emelia was still asleep, unawares that her uncle had decided to visit. Mrs. Hudson was making breakfast in the kitchen.

"The photographs are perfectly safe," Sherlock explained.

"In the hands of a fugitive sex worker," Mycroft pointed out.

"She's not interested in blackmail. She wants ... protection for some reason. I take it you've stood down the police investigation into the shooting at her house?"

"How can we do anything while she has the photographs? Our hands are tied."

At that moment, the blonde girl decided to exit her room. Her blonde hair tousled and looking half-asleep still. She had on a white tee, as well as plaid pants. True to her heritage, her comforter was wrapped around her shoulders, one corner dragging behind her. She looked at Mycroft and grunted, continuing to the kitchen.

"Good morning, Emelia," John greeted.

A grunt.

"Do need something, love?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"Tea." Her voice was scratchy, more evidence that she had woken moments ago. The teen rubbed one gray eye.

"I boiled water earlier, may still be hot."

"Ta." She placed a kiss on the elderly woman's cheek.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his niece. "Are you quite finished?"

Emelia held up a hand as she stirred her drink and proceeded to take a sip. "Really, Mycroft? Even Anderson knows not to talk to me before I've had tea." She walked over and stole a piece of John's toast. Munching, she launched herself onto the couch, earning a cough from Sherlock.

"Oh, sorry. Do continue." A hand waved them on over the back of the couch.

"She'd applaud your choice of words. You see how this works: that camera phone is her 'Get out of jail free' card. You have to leave her alone. Treat her like royalty, Mycroft," the detective advised.

"Though not the way _she_ treats royalty," John joked.

An orgasmic, distinctively female sigh echoed though 221B. Emelia sat up straight away, head swiveling towards the noise.

"What was that?" John asked.

"Text," Sherlock responded, nonchalantly.

"But what was that noise?" Emelia palled.

Sherlock ignored John, opting to look at the new text instead. He continued talking to his elder brother, "Did you know there were other people after her too, Mycroft, before you sent John and I in there? CIA-trained killers, at an excellent guess."

"Yeah, _thanks_ for that, Mycroft."

Mrs. Hudson brought Sherlock a plate. "It's a disgrace, sending your little brother into danger like that. Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes," She reprimanded.

"Oh, shut up, Mrs. Hudson."

"MYCROFT!"

The British Government suddenly found himself facing three very angry people, two of which were his relatives. "Apologies," he mumbled.

"Thank you."

"Though do, in fact, shut up," Sherlock says. His phone sighs again.

"Ooh. It's a bit rude, that noise, isn't it?" Mrs. Hudson says, frowning.

Sherlock ignores her. "There's nothing you can do and nothing she _will_ do as far as I can see."

"I can put maximum surveillance on her."

"Why bother? You can follow her on Twitter. I believe her user name is 'TheWhipHand'."

"Yes. Most amusing," Mycroft spares no sarcasm for his brother. His phone rings. "'Scuse me. Hello?" He steps into the hall.

"Why does your phone make that noise?" John asked.

"What noise?"

"_That_ noise – the one it just made," John clarifies.

"It's a text alert. It means I've got a text."

"Hmm. Your texts don't usually make that noise."

"Well, somebody got hold of the phone and apparently, as a joke, personalized their text alert noise."

"Hmm. So every time they text you ..." Sherlock's phone cut John off.

"It would seem so."

"Could you turn that phone down a bit? At my time of life," Mrs. Hudson mutters.

"I'm wondering who could have got hold of your phone," John tells his tall flat mate.

"It would have been in your coat, wouldn't it?" Emelia asks tentatively.

Sherlock responds by obscuring his face with the newspaper. "I'll leave you to your deductions."

John smiles as Emelia groans, "I'm so stupid."

"Now where _do_ you get that idea?" The detective does not react to his photographer's glare.

Mycroft, his phone still going on, re-enters the room. "Bond Air is go, that's decided. Check with the Coventry lot. Talk later."

"What else does she have?" Sherlock asks. He is met by a room of questioning looks. "Irene Adler. The Americans wouldn't be interested in her for a couple of compromising photographs. There's more," Standing, he faces his brother accusingly, "_Much_ more."

Mycroft does not react, setting off red flags in the other Holmes' heads.

"Something big's coming, isn't it?" Emelia asks.

"Irene Adler is no longer any concern of yours. From now on you will stay out of this."

"Oh, _will_ I?" The two brothers engage in a staring contest.

"Yes, Sherlock, you _will._"

Sherlock shrugs, walking away.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a long and arduous apology to make to a very old friend."

"Do give her my love," Sherlock mocks, picking up his violin.

Emelia dissolves into giggles as Sherlock follows his brother out of the flat, playing "God Save The Queen" all the while.

She and John shared a hearty smile.

* * *

Christmas came quicker than Emelia remembered previously. Maybe it was the fact that Mrs. Hudson kept her busy cooking and buying presents, or maybe it was trying to buy something for Sherlock, or maybe it was the best thing of all: that she had people to spend Christmas _with_.

Whatever the case, on Christmas Eve, Emelia found herself singing along with Sherlock playing "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" on his violin.

She smiled at Lestrade, who leaned in the door with his wine. She saw John in his Christmas jumper, making tea for Mrs. Hudson, the said woman in a chair happily encouraging the performance with a glass of wine in one hand.

"Lovely! Sherlock, that was lovely!" She called.

"Marvelous! Who knew you could sing that well, Em?" John added.

"I did. You should see her when she thinks no one's looking."

"Shut it, Greggie!"

"I wish you had worn the antlers though, Sherlock."

"Some things are best left to the imagination, Mrs. Hudson."

Emelia giggled, herself wearing the said antlers. John hands Mrs. Hudson the tea, and a very pretty looking woman comes out with a tray of snacks.

"Thank you, Colleen," Emelia says, just as Sherlock declines with a "No thank you, Sarah."

The woman's face falls, and John rushes to cover their mistakes. "Uh, no, no, no, no, no. They're not good with names."

"No-no-no, we can get this," Sherlock assures.

"No, Sarah was the doctor," Emelia starts, working with Sherlock out loud.

"And then there was the one with the spots," her father continues.

"And then the one with the nose!" Emelia shouts triumphantly.

"And then ... who was after the boring teacher?" Sherlock asks.

"Nobody," The still-nameless woman answers for him.

"Jeanette!" The two Holmeses smile, clearly faking it.

"Ah, the process of elimination," Sherlock sighs, only to follow it up with, "Oh, dear Lord" upon looking to the door.

A very pretty Molly Hooper enters, done up nicely. "Hello, everyone. Sorry, hello."

Emelia smiles at her, as does John. "Err, it said on the door just to come up."

The rest of the company says hello, while Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Oh, everybody's saying hullo to each other. How wonderful!" he says with mock cheer.

Emelia backhands her father, slapping him in the chest.

Molly begins to take off her coat, and John the gentleman goes to help her. "Let me, err ... holy Mary!"

"Wow!" Lestrade exclaims.

"Holy cow, Molls!" Emelia blinks rapidly. _That's _definitely_ Molly in the revealing black dress_, she decides.

"Having a Christmas drinkies, then?" Molly asks shyly.

"No stopping them, apparently."

"Sherlock, be nice! Stop being such a moody child," Emelia whispers. Sherlock sits at the table, opening John's laptop,

"It's the one day of the year where the boys have to be nice to me, so it's almost worth it!" Mrs. Hudson laughs.

Molly giggles nervously, the object of her affliction obviously Sherlock. John offers her a chair.

"Have a seat."

"John?" Sherlock calls.

"Hmm?" He leans over his detective's shoulder to see the screen.

"Molly," Lestrade offers,"Want a drink?"

"The counter on your blog: still says one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five."

"Ooh, no! Christmas is cancelled!" John's mock despair sends Emelia into a laughing fit.

Sherlock points to a sidebar. "And you've got a photograph of me wearing that hat!"

"People like the hat."

"No they don't. _What_ people?" Sherlock does not notice as John is replaced with his daughter.

"Well, I, for one, think you look rather dashing in that hat," She tells him, pecking his cheek.

"How's the hip?" Molly asks Mrs. Hudson.

"Ooh, it's atrocious, but thanks for asking."

"I've seen much worse, but then I do post-mortems." Silence falls. " Oh, God. Sorry."

"Don't make jokes, Molly," Sherlock orders.

"No. Sorry," She is handed a glass of red wine by Lestrade, "Thank you. I wasn't expecting to see you. I thought you were gonna be in Dorset for Christmas."

"That's first thing in the morning. Me and the wife – we're back together. It's all sorted."

"Oh, Greggie!"

Lestrade smiles at the room.

"No, she's sleeping with a P.E. teacher," Sherlock interrupts the mood. Lestrade's smile suddenly seems very forced.

"Oh, Greggie…." Emelia lightly taps her dark-haired father on the back of the head.

"Molly gives Greg an apologetic look. "Sorry…. And John. I hear you're off to your sister's, is that right?"

"Yeah."

"Sherlock was complaining." The accused's eyebrows raise. "Err... Saying."

"First time ever, she's cleaned up her act. She's off the booze."

"Nope."

"Shut up, Sherlock, "Emelia smacks her father in the head hard.

"Ow!" He rubs the now sore spot. "I see you've got a new boyfriend, Molly, and you're serious about him."

"Sorry, what?"

"In fact, you're seeing him this very night and giving him a gift."

"Take a day off," John begs.

Lestrade takes a glass of wine and sets it near Sherlock, "Shut up and have a drink."

"Oh, come on. Surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag – perfectly wrapped with a bow. All the others are slapdash at best. It's for someone special, then."

Emelia grabs his arm. "Sherlock, don't do this. Let it go."

The man shakes off the plea, continuing, "The shade of red echoes her lipstick – either an unconscious association or one that she's deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, Miss Hooper has lurrrve on her mind. The fact that she's serious about him is clear from the fact she's giving him a gift at all." Molly squirms.

"Dad….."

"That would suggest long-term hopes, however forlorn; and that she's seeing him tonight is evident from her make-up and what she's wearing. Obviously trying to compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts ..." He stops, finally looking at the present's tag. No one has to guess what's written on it.

"You always say such horrible things. Every time. Always. _Always_."

"Why didn't you listen to me? Why, Dad?"

"I am sorry. Forgive me." Everyone seems to give a little jump. Did Sherlock Holmes just… apologize? "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper." He gives a little kiss to Molly's cheek.

Emelia is holding back tears when a very loud sigh interrupts the moment. "Oh for God's sake!"

"No! That wasn't ... I – I didn't ..." Molly is lost for words.

"No, it was me," Sherlock explains.

"My God, really?!" Lestrade shouts.

"What?!"

"His _phone_. _Honestly_, people. That was definitely a _female_ sigh," Emelia huffs.

"Fifty-seven," John says with narrowed eyes. Emelia nods, agreeing.

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock doesn't look up from the phone.

"Fifty-seven of those texts – the ones I've heard," his flat mate clarifies.

Sherlock walks to the mantel piece, picking up a small box. "Thrilling that you've been counting. 'Scuse me."

"What – what's up, Sherlock?"

"I said excuse me." The moody man walked to his bedroom.

"D'you ever reply?" Emelia called. The click of a door let her know the question was ignored, and that her dad was in her bedroom. John looked to Emelia, and went to listen.

* * *

Hours later, John received a call. Everyone minus his girlfriend had gone home, Sherlock was at Bart's identifying Irene's body, and Emelia had opted to make tea. She heard only John's side of the conversation.

"No. Did he take the cigarette? Shit." John looked to Mrs. Hudson and his daughter. "He's coming. Ten minutes."

"There's nothing in the bedroom," Mrs. Hudson assures.

"Or the bathroom or kitchen," adds Em.

"Looks like he's clean. We've tried all the usual places. Are you sure tonight's a danger night? I've got plans." _Canceled plans_, Emelia muses to herself. "Mycroft. M..." he sighs, taking a place by Jeanette.

"I am really sorry."

"You know, my friends are so wrong about you."

"Hmm?"

"You're a _great_ boyfriend."

"Okay, that's good. I mean, I always _thought_ I was great," John shoots his daughter a victorious face.

"And Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man."

The face falls. John groans, "Jeanette, please."

She speaks bitterly as she dresses, "No, I mean it. It's heart-warming. You'll do anything for him – and he can't even tell your girlfriends apart."

"No, _I'll_ do anything for you. Just tell me what it is I'm not doing. _Tell_ me!"

_Begging, bleh. Don't lower yourself so, John, _Emelia rolls her eyes.

"Don't make me compete with Sherlock Holmes."

"I'll walk your dog for you. Hey, I've said it now. I'll even walk your dog ..."

"I don't _have_ a dog!"

"No, because that was ... the last one. Okay."

"Jesus!" Jeanette gathers her bag and storms off, down the stairs.

"I'll call you."

"NO!"

"Okay."

"That really wasn't very good, was it?" Mrs. Hudson asks.

Emelia chooses that moment to burst into laughter. John glares at her. This goes on for a few minutes, until Sherlock returns.

"Oh, hi," John says.

Sherlock looks around the flat, ignoring John.

"You okay?" Emelia asked, concerned.

Sherlock continues to scan the flat. He heads towards Em's bedroom.

"Hope you didn't mess up my sock index this time."

"Um…. Dad, that's…" The door slams shut. "Mine….. It's cool! I'll take the couch."

John helps her gather blankets and pillows, before heading off to bed.

Emelia and Yorick have a very good conversation about her aunt, in which Yorick finds out more of Emelia's past, mainly concerning her mother, before Yorick points out that it is 1 in the morning. Emelia then turns her back on the skull and sleeps, almost dreamlessly.

At 3 A.M., she is heard saying, "Go away, Irene. Leave my hedgehog alone. If he wants to follow the otter around the zoo he can. And stop antagonizing the panther or I'll let him eat you."

* * *

**FireIceRagingDetective: Thanks. I thought it would be cute, too.**

* * *

**Again, no clue where that last thing came from. SO, yea.**

**And aren't I wonderful? Yorick the skull and I know the most about Em besides Em herself right now. Well, I know more, because I know you will all hate me after this... **

**~TwoMoon'sLite~**


	6. My Dreams Hold My Demons

**Hey y'all. **

**Anyways, this chap has the first real part of writing I've done for this fic since chapter 1. **

**NOTE: contains Suicide. Also PTSD flashbacks. No, not John's.**

**Big shoutout to my beta, whom I've been killing with feels, and shall continue to do so.**

**Sorry for the big update gap, but I was busy. SORRY! Promise to give you two or three chapters as payment. Love y'all!**

**Also, I got a tumblr! SO yeah, that is TwoMoonsLite. Check me out, yo. There's not actually a lot there...**

**Please don't hate me. Actually, do. Or don't just tell me in a review.**

**AND TO THE GUEST WHO REVIEWED SCHEMATICS: Gee thanks. Real helpful. "Ug, useless"? Really? Please please please tell me my readers don't do that to others. Because ya know what I felt like? "Useless". So thanks for that, thanks a lot.**

* * *

**Title Inspiration: Comotose by Skillet**

* * *

**DISCLAIMER:**** I own nothing except Emelia, her backstory (which is completely fictional). I am not Moffat or Gattis. All names are purely fictional and not meant to represent real people. I apologize if I steal your name, purely coincidence, that is.**

* * *

Emelia wakes to a sad tune being played. Before she even opens her eyes, she knows why.

_Ug, Dad, really? You're mourning that slut?_ She thinks of saying.

"Lovely tune, Sherlock. Haven't heard that one before."

_Emelia, that's your aunt. That's not nice. _

"Shut up Yorick," She mutters, face buried in a blanket.

"Did you say something, Em?"

"No, John. Just yawning."

"Okay."

Emelia sees her father's outline at the window; he plays for a moment, and then stops to make a note on his sheet music. "You composing?"

"Helps me to think."

"What are you thinking about?" John asks.

"The counter on your blog is still stuck at one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five," Sherlock said rapidly, spinning around.

"Yeah, it's faulty. Can't seem to fix it."

"Faulty – or you've been hacked and it's a message." Sherlock whips out a phone, one Emelia does not recognize.

"Hmm?" She stares at him.

"Just faulty."

"Sherlock, was that my-"The violin starts again, drowning her out. "Right."

"Right. Well, I'm going out for a bit," John says, standing. Emelia joins him and Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen.

"Listen: has he ever had _any_ kind of ..." John sighs, not being able to ask Mrs. Hudson without doing so, "... girlfriend, boyfriend, a relationship, ever?" He whispers to avoid detection and questions.

"How can we not know?" Emelia asks. "Haven't you known him for, like, ever?"

"He's Sherlock. How will we _ever_ know what goes on in that funny old head?" Mrs. Hudson laughs. John smiles sadly.

"Right. See ya."

John leaves the flat and Emelia watches as he is escorted by a very pretty woman into a black car. _Goddamn, I'm going to kill that woman, _Emelia thought.

After ten minutes, she sends a text to her father.

_Tell my aunt I say welcome back from the dead. –EHW_

A few minutes later, a small ding sounds and Sherlock picks up his phone. Sherlock looks to Emelia, holding up the phone.

She rolls her eyes. "She has John, you better hurry."

Sherlock practically runs out of the flat.

* * *

"Mrs. Hudson!"

"Down here, love."

"Ah, there you are. Do you need any help?"

"If you want to, darling. He's some extra gloves."

"Thanks. SO… um… can I ask about Dad?"

"Sure, dearie. Can you hand me that rag?"

"Yeah, here. Do you think Dad's in love with John?"

"I don't doubt it, Emelia."

A loud slam echoes.

"Oh dear. Sherlock must be back."

"Down here Dad!"

It was not Sherlock.

"Oh My!"

"Hey! Get your grimy paws off me. My Uncle will hear about this. LET. GO."

"Help. Help. Hel-"

"There, that's better. Hard to talk with a gag yea?"

"Nana! Unhand me, fiend!"

"OW. Dammit."

"What the hell did you do? Where's the kid?"

"Locked herself in the bedroom. Let's go."

There are sounds of footsteps upstairs. Emelia clutches to the door, pulling it closed. After a few minutes, she realizes that the captors have moved upstairs. She goes to pull out her phone. _Damn. I left it upstairs. And 221A's phone is by the door. I can't go for it. I could get shot. Damn._

She closes her eyes, only to be confronted with flashing images. A noose, her mother, the train, Shira. "No, no. Not now, please not now."

She knows she can't stop it. She can't close her eyes. But she does, screwing them tight. The dingy wallpaper of Baker Street is replaced with bright blue paint. The hardwood makes way for light carpet.

She knows what this is. This is not a nightmare, no. It's worse. It's a memory.

* * *

_The window stays open from days ago. She's living on her hidden peanut butter stash. She avoids the kitchen as much as possible. The crayons, arranged in a rainbow, are to her right. She holds a yellow crayon in one hand and the peanut butter-filled spoon in her mouth. She colors the train's wheels, having already made the body blue._

_It's then that the sirens start._

_They scare her, so much that she reaches for her stuffed white tiger, Shira. When they get louder, she hides under the bed, losing the spoon in the process. The airplane comforter blocks her view of most of the room, but she can still see the lights bouncing off the walls. She hears stomping, and then the door opens. A pair of boots is all she can see. They walk to the coloring book, a hand coming down to pick up the dropped spoon. Emelia hunkers down._

_A female face shows. She's no older than 20, maybe less. "Hey there, cutie."_

_Emelia whimpers. She can only see her mother's face when looking at this stranger._

_"Dithers!"_

_"What?" A male voice shouts._

_"There's a girl here."_

_"What?" More stomping, then an older male ducks down. "Hey there. Monroe, did she react?"_

_"She whimpered, sir."_

_"Alright, go get rid of the body."_

_"Yes, sir." The lady leaves._

_"Hey, sweetie. It looks uncomfortable under there. Do you want to come out?"_

_"You're old."_

_Dithers laughs. "I'm not that old sweetie."_

_"Yea, you are. You look like my teacher. He's like, a bazillion years old."_

_"Oh really?"_

_Emelia nods._

_A new pair of boots appears behind Dithers. "Sir?"_

_"What, Lestrade?"_

_"They need you out there."_

_A sigh and Dithers disappears. "Fine. Get this kid out of here. Take her home until we can locate her family."_

_"Yes, sir." A younger male face enters her view. "Hey."_

_"Hi."_

_"I'm Greg. What's your name?"_

_"Emelia."_

_"What have you got there?"_

_"Shira."_

_"Is that her name?"_

_She nods. "She's a tiger."_

_"I see. It looks cramped under there. Do you want to come out?"_

_She nods again._

_"Will you?"_

_She shakes her head._

_Greg looks around, but faces her again. "I'm not supposed to do this, but if you come out, we can get ice cream."_

_Emelia crawled out, slowly. "Ice cream now, Greggie?"_

_A smile. "Yes, Em. Ice cream now."_

_He gathers up the girl and walks into the main room. Emelia fists her small hands into Greg's uniform. She lifts her head only once on their way out, but immediately regrets it._

_Her mother is hanging from the rafter in the kitchen, a rope knotted around her neck. She swings a little as the other officers try to get her down. Hannah Golbernetti looks at her daughter accidently, dull and lifeless eyes drilling into bright and attentive ones._

_Emelia buries her head in Greg's neck, and his hand comes up to stroke her hair._

_"It's okay, Em," he whispers, "It's okay. We aren't ever coming back here."_

_She remembers the brightness of the sun and the taste of peanut butter ice cream. She remembers Greg had strawberry. She remembers, and that is the worst part._

* * *

When she wakes, peanut butter is on her tongue and Sherlock is shaking her. "Emelia!"

"Sherlock, just wait for her to wake up. Shaking her isn't going to make a difference."

"Shut up John. Emelia? Can you hear me?"

"What's all the commotion? Dear God! What happened?"

"No idea, Greg. I found her like this.

"EMELIA!"

"How long's he been at this?"

"Oh, about 15 minutes."

"Emelia Genevieve, wake up!"

"Any idea what's wrong, doc?"

"Your guess is as good as mine."

"Emelia, wake, please."

She opened her eyes.

"Oh God!"

She was aware that Sherlock was trying to kill her… no hugging her. John and Lestrade stood nearby, closer to the door.

There were shouts all around.

"Emelia what happened?" John asked.

"Peanut butter ice cream," she responded, looking straight at Greg.

"I thought those stopped."

"Apparently not."

"What are you talking about?" John shouted.

"PTSD. Flashback. Greg got me out using ice cream."

"You gave me the nickname Greggie that day."

"You had strawberry."

"Your tiger's name was Shira."

"Emelia, upstairs. You are explaining, now."

"Um, John? I can't walk."

Sherlock scooped his daughter up, carrying her past questioning looks from Yarders and onto 221B's couch. "There, now explain."

So she did, as soon as the Yarders left.

* * *

"My mum hung herself in our kitchen. One of the neighbors must have called the cops, because they came. Dithers was the lead officer. I liked him. Greg was the one to get me out of my room. He was nice, he asked me questions. He bribed me with ice cream. He took care of me until they had contacted all of my family. Irene didn't want me, neither did my dad. My grandparents were dead. So I went to the orphanage. Greg didn't want me to be teased for my mum's death, so together we made up the cover story. They believed him because he worked with the Yard. He'd visit sometimes, and always with peanut butter. It's a joke between us."

"I'm so sorry, Em."

"It's okay John."

"No, it's not Emelia."

"John, she said she's fine, it's fine. Leave the poor girl alone."

"Sherlock-"

"Emelia needs rest. I'll help her get to bed."

A door shuts.

"Emelia?"

"Dad?"

"Are you okay?"

"Fine, Dad. Really."

"My mother is dead as well, you know."

"Now I do."

"Well…. Goodnight Emelia."

"Goodnight Dad."

"Sleep tight, Lia."

A yawn.

"Night."

Another door closes.

"Your mother's dead?"

"Shut up, John."

"I wasn't going to…"

"You have work tomorrow. Go to bed, John."

"You're really good with her, you know."

"I do."

"Goodnight John."

"Goodnight Sherlock."

* * *

That night, Yorick learns another secret. That Sherlock Holmes loves his daughter, and fears that the next time she has a flashback, he won't be near when she wakes up.

Of course, it's not like Yorick'll tell anyone. He likes his skull to NOT have a bullet hole in it. He saw what the detective did to the wall.

* * *

**Azzy97, Katherine Winchester : YAY! Well, there ya go!**

* * *

**Review please!**

**~TwoMoon'sLite~**


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